


tap out or pass out

by Anonymous



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-06-18
Packaged: 2019-10-27 23:38:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17776391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Eames takes self defense to impress the student demonstrator, Arthur. Yusuf and Ariadne tag along to laugh at him.





	tap out or pass out

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works.
> 
> For the [kink meme prompt](https://inception-kink.livejournal.com/19177.html?thread=43934441#t43934441): "College AU where Arthur and Eames are taking a self defense class and they always get paired up. Maybe because Eames thinks Arthur is hot and wants to get up close and personal in class. Cue awkward positions/UST/hilarity: its all up to you anon. Bonus points if you throw in the rest of the team somehow."

Ordinarily, Eames would have said that he'd be more than happy to be between Arthur's legs. It never occurred to him until recently that it seems a caveat was necessary to the statement:  _generally speaking_  Eames would be perfectly pleased to have Arthur's legs wrapped around him, but in  _certain scenarios_  it's just bloody painful.

For instance, when one's arm was wedged over Arthur's hips and groin, immobile between lean legs and arms in a disgustingly painful arm bar.

Eames tries to hold off tapping out—as he does every class—but something tweaks in his elbow and he's quickly slapping Arthur's thigh, conveniently positioned over his face, desperately, "I give, I give. Fuck, Arthur, ease up, hey."

He suspects Arthur is smirking as he releases Eames' captured arm, but can't be sure since his vision is crossed with pain. Arthur moves off him, but Eames remains on the mat, looking up at the dull white ceiling.

The ceiling and he have had quite a lot of bonding time recently.

"Eames, are you okay?" Ariadne's concern sounds more like awe. Probably in response to how quickly Arthur had taken Eames' feet out from underneath him and executed the arm bar rather than anything else. Behind her, he can hear Yusuf laughing.

Then Arthur's face pops into his vision, "Mr. Eames?" Arthur is only the student demonstrator, nothing more than an undergraduate such as Eames himself, but addresses all the students in Mr. Cobb's self defense class with 'Mr.' or 'Ms.' "Mr. Eames, did I hurt you?"

The worst of it is Arthur truly is  _worried_. Eames easily,  _easily_  outweighs Arthur by ten kilos. Not that it ever seems to help.

Maybe he should stop volunteering to be Arthur's punching bag.

"Maybe you should stop volunteering, Eames," Yusuf suggests, still chortling.

"Ha bloody ha, Yusuf," Eames growls, an allusion to a rather embarrassing incident involving far too much champagne, Yusuf, and Robert Fischer at a house party last Friday. Then, with a not-quite-suppressed groan, he takes Arthur's outstretched hand—with the arm that doesn't feel like it's going to fall off at any moment—and climbs to his feet.

Right around then, Cobb wanders back into the room. "Demonstrations over, Arthur?"

It's a wonder Cobb is teaching self-defense of all things. Most of the class revolves around disarming people of guns or knives and practical measures, but when it comes to particularly skilled work Cobb has to rely on Arthur, who actually seems to have some training in something or other.

"Pair off, guys and gals! Practice what Arthur was showing you," Cobb yells with an authority that's laughable, considering he spent the entire class flirting with his fiancée, Mallorie Miles, rather than  _teaching_  anything. "Arthur, I need to speak with you a moment."

Arthur gives Eames and the others a nod as he passes, obeying Cobb without question. They duck their heads together in whispers while the class looks around, trying to abate the awkwardness of choosing one's own partner.

"C'mon, Yusuf," Eames drags Yusuf by the the wrist, again using his uninjured left arm, off to the side.

"Hey, what about me! I showed  _true concern_  over your well-being, Eames, and you're leaving me partnerless!"

Eames ignores Ariadne's yelling. It's actually a little petty of him, he'll admit, since he's sure that both Ariadne and Yusuf are harboring enormous crushes on each other. A fact that he uses to his advantage and entertainment frequently.

Such as the time he promised to get Ariadne's schedule for Yusuf so they could 'accidentally' end up in the same classes. Instead, Eames had doctored up a fake. Yusuf, a chemistry major, ended up in "Philosophy of Language: Self Reference and Self-Reflexivity" all alone. Apparently, they spent over three weeks discussing the word "I." Of course, Yusuf got his revenge when Eames, majoring in English and psychology, had to take his required sciences by recommending the worst possible professor.

They both blamed each other for the 'C's marring otherwise stellar transcripts.

"Still trying to win Arthur over with displays of your overwhelming masculinity, then?"

"Shut up, Yusuf."

"Really, you're doing great."

Eames really doesn't have to put up with this. He sweeps Yusuf's legs out and performs the arm bar Arthur had so gracefully executed on him moments before. Eames can best most people in the class if he tries, it's only Arthur that's forever one step ahead.

That's probably part of the reason Eames is so intrigued with the infuriating man.

"Ow, okay, okay, okay," Yusuf is flailing against the mat in what must be a tap out, so Eames releases him. Yusuf rubs at his right arm as he gets up and Eames is sympathetic considering his own won't stop throbbing.

"You were saying, Yusuf?"

Three mats over, Ariadne has Fischer—rumored to have attended the UC against his father's wishes that he go to Stanford instead—in a brutal arm bar.

 

 

 

 

"Another Tuesday! Yet another opportunity to watch Arthur kicks Eames' ass," Ariadne pauses thoughtfully, "I probably shouldn't be as excited as I am about this."

"Ariadne, why are you taking self-defense anyway? You're on the swim team, doesn't that get you out of needing a physical education requirement?"

"Well, yeah. But then I'd miss all the fun. Yusuf told me that you were trying to woo Arthur by getting beat up. How could I say no? I dropped  _life drawing_  for this, Eames. You should  _see_  the models they had this quarter."

The bitch of it isn't that it's not true—because it's all completely accurate—but that it's pathetic. Eames had assumed that by junior year of university that he'd be different somehow. Older, wiser. Less prone to chasing boys who didn't want to give him the time of day. Certainly past the point of being teased by Ariadne and Yusuf of all people. Some friends he had.

And, even worse, Arthur had made it very clear that he wanted nothing to do with Eames, after all in yet another unfortunate incident at a different house party. Then again, it certainly had been a tactical error to walk up to Arthur even before he knew his name, announce 'I'm Eames, darling,' and kiss him. Apparently, being  _incredibly_  intoxicated didn't earn him a pass for the behavior either, if Arthur's consistently stick-in-the-ass-ish response since was anything to go by.

"Eames!"

Before he knows it, Robert Fischer has taken Ariadne's place, presumably stepping between them and towering over the poor girl. Ever since the same night as the Champagne Incident, Robert had attached to Eames like a particularly well-dressed and arrogant limpet. The night was mostly a half-remembered haze, but Eames does recall asking Robert, 'Am I boring you?' and walking off. Apparently, disdainful dismissal is what flips Fischer's switch. If only Eames had wanted to flip it in the first place.

"I wanted to ask you your opinion about this week's book for Professor Saito's class. The Murakami."

Ariadne's head pops around Fischer's side. She waggles her eyebrows and fingers in the most disturbing fashion at Eames, "See you in self defense. Don't be late."

Eames scrapes his hand down his face, but can't quite bring himself to tell Fischer to piss off and follow her. As stuck up as the man is, there's something about his big blue eyes that seem to say he's been stepped on by enough people in his life. Eames feels no need to be yet more of the same.

Still, it's frustrating.

"Right, the Murakami.  _Sputnik Sweetheart_ , hmm?" God help him, but it's almost sweet the way Fischer latches on to his words, "Well, I think the professor is really going to be interested in the themes of loneliness in non-comformity and longing for assimilation despite—"

"Eames."

For fuck's sake he's popular today. Out of patience and surely running late for class, he can't help himself from whirling and biting out in the coldest voice he can manage, "Yes, did you need something?"

Of course, it's Arthur standing there, looking at bit stricken before his expression completely closes off. "Sorry to interrupt. I was wondering if you'll be in class today. I was walking there."

"I'll be a moment," is what he manages to force out of his mouth, feeling like dust has buried his tongue.

Arthur does his customary nod of acknowledgement and walks on. Robert, now shoulder-to-shoulder with Eames, looks after him. "He's a strange one."

He barely bites off the 'fuck off' before he says it. "Look, Robert. Let me give you my email and we can work something out to discuss Murakami later. I've got class now."

 

 

 

 

"You really said that to Arthur?" Said class demonstrator is leading everyone in stretches, which means Yusuf, Ariadne, and Eames are in an awkward cluster and whispering.

"Well," Ariadne actually looks somber for once when Eames' love life—or, more accurately, lack of—is up on the table for discussion. It makes the situation all the more pitiful. "On the bright side, you may as well quit volunteering as his crash test dummy. It would be masochistic at this point."

"Okay, Arthur, I'll leave you to the demonstrations. I'll be back in five." That's Cobbian code for 'I'll be back once class is about over.'

"Today we're going over ground fighting. This is particularly useful since fights in close quarters can easily devolve into grappling. Being able to use your opponent's momentum against him will give you a strategic advantage. Remember, in self-defense everything is game: eye-gouging, joint locks, striking while your attacker is down—do whatever you have to do to keep alive," Arthur pauses, a hint of a smile on his lips, "Of course, we won't be doing anything like that in class. We'll focus on grappling and holds today. Would anyone like to volunteer to help me demonstrate?"

Eames really isn't going to volunteer, because Ariadne is a perceptive little thing and the smart thing to do would be to listen to her. His masochism and lack of impulse control get the better of him, though: "I'd love to, Arthur."

"Mr. Eames."

Eames can't decide if it's his imagination or not, but he would swear that Arthur's sly little smile turns into a strained frown as soon as he looks at Eames.

"Are you sure? Is your arm okay from the other day?"

"It's perfect. Don't worry a bit about me."

Arthur must not be too concerned, because Eames is put onto the ground hard not a minute later. Luckily, there is a bright side. It would seem that 'ground fighting' mostly consists of Arthur straddling his stomach and pretending to choke him out. It's a lot less painful than arm bars and there's  _straddling_. Need more be said?

Eames suspects he performs even more poorly than usual. That's to be expected, though, when one has to think of incredibly unsexy things—Cobb, philosophy of language, Hemingway—lest he make these too-close positions even less comfortable than they are by necessity.

He spends so much time focusing on  _not_  thinking about Arthur's lithe body above him that it seems like only a few minutes before Cobb walks back in, beaming at the class, "Good work today, guys! Cool down on your own and get out of here. I'll see everyone next week."

Without further ado, Arthur jumps back from Eames like he's been burned and stalks off towards Cobb.

"If your goal was to make him angrier, good job," Yusuf claps his shoulder sympathetically.

"I could always introduce you to one of those life drawing models," Ariadne suggests.

 

 

 

 

Eames closes  _At Swim-Two-Birds_  with a sigh. Originally, he had only been pretending an interest in English to piss off his parents. Then he chose to focus in Irish lit to further enrage his father—who had said something incredibly offensive about 'real literature'—and fallen in love somewhere along the way. But even the wit of O'Brien, his subject for his honors thesis, wasn't pulling him out of the moroseness that had settled over him after the last self defense class.

Setting the book aside lovingly, he grabs his iPhone to check the recent emails and texts. Two new emails, one from Robert (Subject: "Coffee and Murakami on Saturday?") and one from his thesis advisor (Subject: "Finished rough draft by the end of next week"). Three texts, two from Ariadne: ("I was serious about the life drawing model. There's one named Drake who isn't an ass. Probably." and "Movie night? We could do chick flicks and venture on the path of healing your broken heart in an entirely platonic way together.") The last one is from Yusuf: ("Proposal: drinking ourselves stupid. Place: My apartment. Time: Now.")

It's a moment of great benevolence—or something close enough to it—he forwards Yusuf's text to Ariadne, drops the phone, pockets the book, and heads out the door without a destination in mind.

Eames ends up at the dark, locked English department building for reasons unknown. Sort of. It's an old habit that he gave up in sophomore year, but as a freshman he would go there to enjoy the silence of the place. The rest of campus was bustling at all hours, but the English department always seemed like an oasis where one could observe unnoticed the world around them. It's melancholy and self-indulgent, but apparently he hasn't outgrown it.

He stays there until it's too dark to even pretend to be reading any longer.

When he gets home, there's only one text waiting for him on his phone from Yusuf ("Thanks").

He sleeps restlessly.

 

 

 

 

The phone wakes him. Eames answers it without bothering to dig his head out of the pillow. Only Yusuf and Ariadne ever call anyway. Sometimes his mum. "Hmmwhoizzit?"

"Eames, it's Arthur. I hope this isn't a bad time." He pauses self-consciously, "Ariadne said she thought you wouldn't mind if I called."

 _That_  wakes him up. He sits bolt-upright in bed, feeling underdressed and underprepared for this conversation, despite it being a phone call. And why had Arthur gotten his number from Ariadne anyway?

"Arthur? As in Arthur-from-self-defense?" Gorgeous, competent Arthur?

"Yes."

"Um, what can I do for you?"

Arthur hesitates, "I wanted to apologize."

"What?" Obviously Eames' brain isn't quite online yet this morning, because this conversation makes no sense to him whatsoever already.  _He_  should be apologizing to  _Arthur_ , if anything, for his waspishness the other day.

"Look. I know you're still pissed about that time at the party. That's the only thing that explains it."

"Wait. I have no bloody idea what you're talking about." If Arthur was talking about the same night Eames decided to molest him while under the influence, then it was still Eames that should be apologizing. Profusely.

"This is all revenge, isn't it. The volunteering every day and flirting," and none of it's even a question in that flat, I-know-all-the-answers-because-I'm-Arthur voice. "Some weird sort of revenge."

"Arthur, maybe we should have this conversation in person, because I'm still lost here."

"The party." Okay, and now Arthur's angry, because he's talking to Eames like he's a four-year-old. "You called me darling and kissed me. Then I punched you."

Ah, well, that's fascinating new information. "You punched me? I thought my jaw was sore the next day."

If possible, Arthur's tone gets even flatter, "You didn't even remember."

"Well, I was utterly sloshed, Arthur, if you hadn't noticed. If it's any consolation, I'm sure I deserved it."

"You kissed me, I didn't even know your name, and it was a pretty horrible night. Also, I may not have been entirely sober. I did apologize at the time."

"Don't remember any of that, least of all the apology, but I do appreciate the sentiment. Now what's this you were saying about 'revenge'?"

Arthur huffs out a frustrated breath, "The volunteering, I thought you were trying some, I don't know, psychological warfare or something."

"Oh, darling, I don't even know where to begin with that one."

It's obviously the wrong thing to say. Arthur, sounding furious, says, "Fuck, I don't even know why I tried. I'll see you in class." Then ends the call without so much as a waiting a second.

Junior year and Eames' is definitely not older, nor wiser.

The iPhone standard text tone bleeps in his hand. Ariadne this time ("I HAVE SO MUCH TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT").

Eames spends the rest of the weekend trying his best to become one with  _At Swim-Two-Birds_. Failing that, he sleeps.

When Tuesday inevitably rolls around, Eames honestly considers skipping class, if only so he doesn't have to hear all about Yusuf and Ariadne finally consummating their mutual attraction. Because, really, there are certain things heartbroken, pining men don't need to hear at the best of times and certainly not after one has managed to enrage said object of pining  _again_.

But disappearing will only make it worse for him in the end, so he manfully waits until the last minute to slip in the door—as to avoid pre-class chit chat—and positions himself for stretching by Robert instead of in the usual corner where Yusuf and Ariadne are waiting. They give him questioning looks from across the room, but he pretends not to see.

It's actually really easy to ignore them since Robert has decided to jump on the 'let's make Eames' life unbearable' bandwagon that's so popular these days.

"You didn't email me back."

For fuck's sake. "It was a busy weekend, Robert. I apologize, if it's worth anything."

Robert looks somewhat mollified, thank Christ, but regains a look of intense anger as Arthur steps up to lead the class.

"Today we'll be working on how to repel an attacker who's in your personal space. This is a useful skill, for example, if you're at a party and some asshole doesn't seem likely to take 'no' for an answer. Or any analogous situation." Arthur pauses a second, all angry lines and hard eyes. He's already deviating from his script, but the next part manages to knock the wind out of Eames in his surprise. "Mr. Eames will be our volunteer today."

This cannot mean anything good.

Robert notices, too. "Is he an ex or something?"

"You've no idea," Eames mutters and makes his way to the front of the class with a feeling of true dread settling in his stomach. In retrospect, it's quite possible that skipping class would have been the more intelligent option.

"Okay, class. Keep in mind that sometimes one solid punch is all that it takes, but today we'll be practicing how to escape an attacker who comes from behind and pins your arms or otherwise has you immobile. Specifically, there are twenty-six bones in the human foot—approximately a quarter of all the bones in the human body. A hard strike with the foot to these delicate bones, ligaments, and tendons either on the instep or toes can be exactly what you need to get the advantage of such a situation." Mandatory pause. "Please don't actually break your partners' feet. Pair off and do what I do."

From the corner of his eye, Eames can see Ariadne approaching Yusuf from behind. He fights off the urge to roll his eyes.

"I suppose I'm the attacker, then, Arthur?"

Arthur's grin is feral. "Yes, for demonstration purposes. Come at me from behind, pin my arms to my side with your hands."

Usually Eames' role of attacker/demonstration-dummy only requires that he allow Arthur to toss him around. He follows Arthur's instructions, but keeps his grip light on Arthur's arms.

"Harder, Eames."

Even as fucked as the entire situation is between them, that does ruthless things to Eames' libido. He clamps down on Arthur's arms like he's told, feeling the wiry muscle of him.

"Before you have at stomping me, I would like to submit the fact that I never meant to offend you in any way. While it's regrettable that there's been drunken groping, equally drunken violence, and so on, it was never my intent to, um, distress you."

"Distress me." Arthur sounds distinctly unimpressed. More towards the realm of 'quiet rage,' really.

And yeah, Eames can understand that. He probably could have worded that better to a man who's routinely had him in pinned to the floor in frequently painful positions. "You know what I mean."

Arthur slams down a heel on Eames' toes, surely holding back only enough force as not to actually break any bones. Eames gasps in pain and nearly falls.

"Or you don't. Christ, but you're hard to communicate with, Arthur!"

"Ariadne!" The shrill scream sounds disturbingly like Yusuf.

"Sorry. I wasn't sure how hard to stomp." That girl is often  _terrifying_. It'll be a wonder if Yusuf survives her in one piece.

"Class, we're ending early. Stretch out and don't tell Professor Cobb." Eames blinks through his pain at Arthur, absolutely confused. Straight-laced Arthur never lets them leave a second early, even when he's entirely sure Cobb won't notice in his Mal-induced reverie. "C'mon, Eames."

 _And_  no 'Mr.,' curiouser and curiouser.

Then Eames is tugged, with only a slight limp, through to an adjoining locker room. Without ceremony, Arthur pushes him so he's sitting on a bench. Then he kneels down and starts working on the laces of Eames' left shoe.

He's beginning to suspect that he'll never understand quite what goes on in Arthur's head.

"That was unprofessional of me, Mr. Eames, I'm sorry. It won't happen again," Arthur's carefully not looking at him as he pries of Eames' shoe and sock. Sure enough, the foot looks larger than Eames remembers, swollen and red.

"Arthur."

"In fact, I shouldn't even be helping teach the class if I can't control myself. There really isn't any excuse—"

"Arthur, stop."

Arthur looks up then, wide eyed and strangely vulnerable. Looking lost—if Eames believed anyone as thoroughly competent as Arthur ever felt lost.

"I would desperately, desperately like the chance to start over. A fresh start. Preferably without the violence this time around."

Arthur's brows furrow thoughtfully. "What do you mean?"

"How about this," Eames considers suggesting coffee, thinks of Robert, and changes his mind, "we do something utterly normal—sober. Say, dinner and a movie. And see how that goes. We can even do introductions and the like."

"What."

"I'll demonstrate." He holds out a hand to the still-kneeling Arthur, who stares at it dumbly, "Hello, I'm Eames. Top of my class in psychology and English. Terribly fond of Joyce and O'Brien. And I can quote Yeats at you until I'm out of breath."

Arthur looks more shocked than impressed, so Eames launches into a quick recitation:

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet;/ Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams," Eames paused. "Unless you want the full poem. I can do that as well. Like I said, 'til I'm blue in the face. Not half bad, hmm? Let's see. I've two sisters and my father threatens to disown me every other week or so. That's the brief version."

Arthur's jaw is agape a little. "Wait. You're asking me out on a date. I probably broke all your toes and you want to go out."

"That was a failure of communication, a misunderstanding. And my toes are fine." He wriggles them to prove it. It's painful, but not difficult. "There, see?"

"This is a horrible idea."

"It's not, really. Perhaps interacting while under the influence shouldn't be attempted for awhile, but it's really a brilliant idea actually, since you're utterly gorgeous and intimidatingly capable. Give it a shot, darling, you may like it."

"You're not mocking me when you call me that?"

"Darling?" Eames thinks, "Hadn't even realized I was saying it, to be honest."

"That seems to be a frequent characteristic of yours."

"Ah, ah, it's a fresh start or nothing, Arthur. That's cheating."

"So, in a way, you're metaphorically tapping out."

"If that's the way you want to look at it, sure. I'd be glad to."

"Fine then." Arthur offers his own hand, which Eames shakes. "Arthur. Economics major, history minor. You'll have to find out more about me over dinner. And I don't put out until the third date."

"Such a traditionalist, you."

"I probably should admit something before we do this 'start over' thing."

To say that those words strike foreboding into his very core would be an understatement. "Yes?"

Arthur leans up, so he can whisper into Eames' ear, "I thought you were fucking with me when you volunteered every time. It's been driving me crazy, putting my hands all over you. I thought I didn't have a chance in the world after that horrible party."

Then Arthur hauls him in for a kiss, knocking Eames' phone from its precarious perch in his back pocket. Across the screen is a text from Ariadne ("Spoke with Arthur the other day—he seems into you! I guess you didn't screw up completely!")


End file.
